


Push and Pull

by supremesapphic (StormcageSweetie)



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kissing, Slow Burn, this entire fic was inspired by that one cher quote and i will not apologize for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormcageSweetie/pseuds/supremesapphic
Summary: After Mrs. Lynde says some hurtful things at church, Marilla and Muriel have tea together anyway. It's become their routine. Besides, Marilla doesn't mind the fact that her friend wears trousers (if she were being honest, they were quite becoming on her). When Marilla breaks out her infamous currant wine, the emotions start to flow. Memories come back. Foundations shift by degree. In the dark, warm parlor of Green Gables, sat on the sofa next to Muriel, Marilla finally understands.
Relationships: Marilla Cuthbert/Muriel Stacy
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

Marilla Cuthbert stood under a bare tree in the sunlight of an October afternoon, eagerly scanning the crowd emptying out of the church around her with a pleased little smile on her face. She was waiting for someone.  
Rachel Lynde noticed this from the entrance of the church, having hung back for a brief conversation with the minister’s wife about the new Sunday school curriculum. She had many thoughts on the topic, most of which were still running through her head when she spotted the certain someone that Marilla waited for—a certain mouthy someone, wearing trousers paired with heeled boots. The two began chatting away before they were within five feet of each other. Rachel quite a bit of a sting at that; Marilla certainly never greeted her with such enthusiasm these days.  
Muriel Stacy had never made a habit of attending mass in Avonlea until late, and Mrs. Lynde found it mighty bold of her indeed to choose to do so in such... non traditional garb. Yes, non traditional was the best way to describe the woman, she thought to herself with an exasperated huff. That was for sure and certain. If she had but one duty as a Christian, she felt with some vigor that it was to save the poor thing from herself—and she moved quickly through the dwindling crowd to do just that, in her own polite fashion.  
Marilla saw her approach over Muriel’s shoulder and steeled herself for some well intentioned prying. Rachel approached quicker than Marilla could warn her.  
“Good afternoon ladies,” Rachel proclaimed, startling Muriel to her presence. “Though that sure wouldn’t be most folk’s first guess from across a room,” she added under her breath, assessing the offending outfit up close with a raised eyebrow.  
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lynde,” Muriel replied brightly, sharing a knowing glance with Marilla who simply nodded her acknowledgment in turn. Here was trouble, surely—Rachel had been particularly relentless in her quest to play matchmaker as of late, and Muriel had only one guess as to why the rather stout woman approached her. There was no rest for the wicked, it seemed--especially when the identity of “the wicked” inhabiting Avonlea happened to be decided by Mrs. Lynde and Mrs. Lynde only. Marilla felt some sympathy for her younger friend. She herself had had decades to acclimate to all of Rachel’s vast and varied particularities, but never had she personally experienced her efforts so concentrated. Marilla recognized that fervor, though--she really wouldn’t budge until she saw Muriel wed.  
“Making plans for this evening, are we?” Rachel asked haughtily.  
“I was just asking Muriel to tea at Green Gables,” Marilla answered. “You’re more than welcome to join, as always,” she added with some reluctance that couldn’t quite hide itself.  
Rachel had already known the answer to her question before asking it—the two women, an odd match though they were to all that observed them, had been spending plenty an afternoon together since Anne and her lot had gone off to Queen’s. The level of tomfoolery among the youth of Avonlea had diminished to comparatively none in the redhead’s wake, so as a natural course both Marilla and Muriel suddenly found themselves with more free time than they knew what to do with.  
Rachel had a bit of an idea what Muriel ought to be doing with hers.  
“Oh, thank you, but I couldn’t impose—I’ve got to be getting Thomas’s supper fixed up soon anyhow. Never a dull moment when one’s got a husband waiting at home. Speaking of...” Rachel started, turning ever so subtly to directly address Muriel once more, “If it wouldn’t break poor Marilla’s heart too terribly to pull you away, I happen to know of a very fine young gentleman staying in Avonlea for the week on business who wouldn’t mind some company for his tea this evening. And I do say—he’s quite a handsome fellow!”  
With a deep breath and a quick glance at Marilla for moral support, Muriel put on the most polite smile she could muster. This conversation had played out many times and she knew from experience it was best not to yield one inch, right from the start. Any indecision transformed alchemy like before one’s very eyes into a fatal flaw, a crack in the defenses—that was when the woman figured how to get her way, regardless of what your own plans were. Muriel resolved to stick to her guns, as it were, a resolution made all the easier knowing Marilla stood with her, ready and willing to put her oar in if need be.  
“I was actually very much looking forward to my evening at Green Gables, Mrs. Lynde, but I do appreciate the offer,” she answered. She had aimed for confidence, and still the arrow landed awkwardly—for as confident as she was, she admitted the constant bombardment still disconcerted her. Especially in such a public space, she thought to herself. Heaven forbid any other Avonlea resident took the opportunity to begin airing their own grievances with the minutiae of her lifestyle... Still, the answer registered on the short, stout woman’s face and she faltered for a moment. Marilla grinned, quietly amused. She had to admit she rather enjoyed seeing Rachel’s feathers ruffled—and ruffle them Muriel did, better than almost anyone. She could always rely on her friend in that respect.  
“But I feel I must add, Muriel, he is a businessman,” Rachel said hastily, thinking that might sweeten the deal to a degree. A working woman could hardly argue at the prospect of money, could she? Rachel was quite wrong on that account, but the fact that she had finally approved of the female teacher in the first place was a shocking amount of progress to those that knew her, and as such they could hardly begrudge her a few misguided sticking points. All she wanted to do was help.  
“Be that as it may,” Muriel started again, not one to be persuaded—until she found herself cut off.  
“From Charlottetown! Owns a townhouse!” Rachel continued, determined not to lose yet again. It was obvious to her that the young teacher simply needed some assistance prioritizing.  
“Be that as it may,” Muriel repeated, slower, raising her voice a bit and causing Marilla to suppress a small laugh (for she knew what Muriel’s “schoolma’am” voice sounded like, and that was it as sure as the woman stood before her wearing trousers), “I have no intentions of upsetting my plans with Miss Cuthbert.”  
That truly silenced Mrs. Lynde for a moment. Both Marilla and Muriel turned back towards each other to continue their conversation, thinking the matter settled (at least for the weekend). Sure enough, though, Rachel intended to have the last word.  
“You’ll never find yourself another husband spending all your spare time up at Green Gables, Muriel. Week after week... people will start to talk. I hope you understand that.”  
Marilla turned sharply and spoke. “Now that’s more than enough, Rachel. You’ve said your piece. Let the poor woman be already.” The same speech as they’d both heard from Rachel many times before was one matter, but Marilla felt (and correctly, for she knew Rachel’s temper as well as she usually suppressed her own) that this was only a few words away from turning into a very personal matter indeed. If she had anything to do with it, it would not proceed further.  
“Oh, hush Marilla. I understand you’re lonely but I’ll not let you turn her into a bitter old widow just to make you feel like less of a spinster.”  
Marilla felt as if she’d had all the air knocked out of her chest. Her face grew hot. She didn’t have any words; it’d been many years indeed since Rachel had managed to wound her so quickly and completely. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, stinging and defenseless and daring to spill down because she hadn’t the will to hold them back. Though Marilla couldn’t see it— she stared only at her own feet, head hung in embarrassment, hand covering her mouth— Muriel’s face was red too. Red with anger.  
“I hardly think it’s fair to say such things to someone you’re lucky enough to call a friend, Mrs. Lynde. No, it is downright cruel,” she shot back, stepping forward to put herself in between Marilla and the offender. “Has it ever occurred to you, for a single moment of this tireless crusade to get me married off that you seem to be on, that I am fully aware of my own station in life? Has it ever occurred to you that I choose to live the way I do because it makes me happy?”  
“Well now...” Rachel stammered. “You may think that now, but... but... by the time you reach my age and find yourself alone and desperate like her, you’ll wish you had let me help you. You’ll wish you had done the sensible thing and just... settled down and married a rich man when the opportunity had been so graciously placed before you.”  
Muriel fought not to openly shout at the callous woman. There really was no getting through to her, calm or otherwise—her life revolved around meddling in the lives of others, of course the concept of independent thought bewildered her. Any kindness she had ever showed Marilla was shadowed over by this harsher tongue, and had been for years. Yes, the discussion had been over before it ever actually started in that respect. She treated the woman like a punching bag. Instead of raising her voice, Muriel hooked her thumbs into her suspenders, squared her shoulders, and looked firmly down at her.  
“I am a rich man, Mrs. Lynde. Is that enough for you?” she said sarcastically.  
That was the final word—Rachel scoffed indignantly and backed away towards the road, muttering a series of ‘well-I-never’s and ‘the-nerve-of-some-people’s to herself while shaking her head. She didn’t spare a parting glance to the women in her wake, off to no doubt immediately recount the whole scene to anyone and everyone that passed her gate (with her own fair share of scandalizing embellishments).  
Marilla and Muriel were left standing alone under the bare tree, both red faced and breathless, the last member of the congregation having finally headed for home. Muriel turned to face Marilla once more and found her visibly shaken, face still cast down in shame. Muriel had seen her friend in distress before, but never like this. She placed a tentative hand on her shoulder in consolation. When Marilla didn’t reject her or shrug it away, Muriel gave her a moment to just breathe with the tactile reminder that she was not alone. She ran a thumb over Marilla’s shoulder to comfort her, and when Marilla reached for that hand she held it. When red rimmed eyes finally rose to meet her own, Muriel spoke earnestly.  
“I try my hardest every day to like that woman, hand to my heart, but the way she behaves sometimes is appalling. The nerve she has, speaking to you like that so plainly... She’s so ill-tempered and petulant when she doesn’t get her way, I felt just now as if I was admonishing one of my more troublesome students. Though I hardly think I would’ve let my own temper go quite so far were she an actual child—they don’t have the luxury of knowing better.”  
Marilla thought on that. She blinked. She suddenly found herself feeling a bit like a schoolgirl with the snort that escaped her just then, and subsequently turned into a fit of giggles at the mental image of Rachel trying to sit at one of the little desks in the schoolhouse. Soon Muriel joined in laughing, relieved, and Marilla found she couldn’t stop—she couldn’t say anything, just smile at her friend with fresh tears of hilarity arising in the corners of each eye. She let the laughter fill her, chasing away the memory of Rachel and soothing the sting of her words. When they both regained a modicum of composure and caught their breath, Muriel withdrew her hand only to chivalrously offer Marilla her arm.  
“Would mademoiselle care for an escort back to Green Gables?” She asked, raising her eyebrow. Marilla laughed once more, winding her arm through Muriel’s as they turned out of the yard towards the church gate together.  
“Why thank you, kind sir.” 

The journey along the path back to Green Gables awed Marilla—everything seemed so beautiful that afternoon, the sun gilding every branch above their heads and each dry leaf that skittered across the road before them. Nothing had really changed or shifted about the route since she had traveled to the church that morning. Nothing, that was, but her companion. Muriel brought out not only the beauty in their surroundings, but a perpetual sense of wonder that she gave Marilla the privilege of sharing. When she noticed a particular bird or plant, she easily slipped into the role of teacher, asking Marilla (happy to play student) questions and sharing the most fascinating tidbits with her. This must be what Muriel’s students experienced during their “field” days, Marilla supposed. To be sure, Rachel hadn’t put much stock in the idea of it when the woman had first graced the Avonlea schoolhouse, but—Marilla laughed again. Why bother countering opinions in a conversation held entirely in her mind? Marilla didn’t really put much stock into Rachel, on this of all days. What she was invested in, at this particular moment, was the determined furrow in Muriel’s delicate brow as she focused on determining whether the pinecone she held hailed from a white spruce or a white pine. She felt that uncharacteristic smile creeping back, watching Muriel so absorbed and in her element. From the back of her mind, a thought burst forth—though wherever it came from baffled her. Yet she couldn’t argue herself. Surprised as she was to be thinking it, it warmed curiously in her chest after dawning: the trousers were really quite becoming on Muriel.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright, I give up. You’ve been all smiles and giggles since we left the churchyard and I just cannot for the life of me figure it out,” Muriel said, eyeing Marilla from across the table as she poured tea for the both of them. She quirked an eyebrow playfully, drawing out yet another little smile from the older woman. Muriel noted the quick twist in her mouth as she fought but failed to hide it upon being caught—it was not the most common expression to adorn Marilla’s face, that was for sure, but Muriel enjoyed it with increasing familiarity each hour they spent together. “Will you tell me what’s so funny?” she asked, with a warm smile of her own.  
Marilla opened her mouth to reply but paused—no words came out, because she realized she was not sure of the answer.  
“Oh, nothing and everything,” she said after a moment’s thought. She paused a moment more, searching. All she could find was a shrug and a bewildered breath. “You, I suppose.”   
As Marilla handed Muriel her tea, their fingertips brushed. Marilla’s breath caught in her chest for just a second. She wasn’t at all sure why. She wasn’t sure about a lot that had transpired that day. She hoped Muriel hadn’t noticed. Muriel simply sat back with her tea, grinning.  
“I’m funny? I assure you there are plenty of folks in Avonlea who firmly believe quite the opposite.”  
“Well, I suppose funny isn’t quite what I meant. You...” Marilla trailed off, her words still struggling to form. She took a deep, slow breath, closing her eyes to gather herself. “Venomous as she was this afternoon, Rachel was dead right about one thing. I am lonely.” She fiddled with her own teacup, suddenly anxious in the face of her own emotions. They were something she rarely even acknowledged to herself, and here she sat voicing them to another person. But this was not just any person, she thought—it was Muriel. Muriel that she had spent hours with at this very table. Muriel that treated her kindly and never ceased to amaze her and that she never felt the full weight of her age around. Marrilla rather disliked all that flowery turn of phrase for herself, but it occurred suddenly that she understood at last what Anne always meant when she claimed to have found a kindred spirit.  
Somehow that realization only made her heart beat faster. She felt shaky but raced to push the words out now that they’d found their way to her lips at last. “I don’t let on; I hardly think about it myself most of the time. But I... I suppose I really am. A lot of the time, now that Anne is away.”   
Marilla silently chastised herself. The message that came out did not match the whirl of thoughts in her head—words were never her natural instrument, even after hearing so many of them from Anne. She risked a glance up at Muriel and found the same easy grin as before, knowing somehow without a shadow of a doubt that she understood what Marilla was struggling to say. The way her blue eyes were locked in such an attentive gaze calmed Marilla to the point where she could breathe normally again.  
“Well then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m here to keep you company,” Muriel replied softly, reaching out and catching Marilla’s hand in her own.   
There it was again—that same feeling as before. Sitting there in silence, Marilla’s hand felt almost electrified by Muriel’s touch. That warmth that surprised her earlier, pleasant as it was strange, swelled in her chest. She found that she didn’t want to look away, couldn’t bring herself to break the silence of this one gracious moment.  
The kitchen door creaked loudly open, breaking it for her. They each withdrew and took up their teacups as Matthew plodded in. Marilla turned away from him, embarrassed again for a reason she could not pin down. She felt... well, she wasn’t sure what she felt. Confused, she supposed, taking a rather heavy gulp of tea that broke her own usually strict rules of etiquette.  
“Good afternoon, Matthew!” Muriel called out cheerfully as the man removed his hat.  
“Hullo, Miss Stacy.” He nodded in his own fashion as he continued through the house. Turning towards the stairs, he paused a moment. “Ah, Marilla... I don’t suppose you’d know... uh, that is, Jerry mentioned in the barn just now about a bit of a... fuss. After mass. With Mrs. Lynde. D’you...” he trailed off, not quite reading his sister’s face fully but understanding that perhaps this was better left alone for the time being. Women’s business, he conceded. “Well, now...” He looked back and forth between the two seated women awkwardly, turning to go up the stairs.  
“Matthew,” Muriel called out once more, stalling him. “What do you think of the fact that I wear trousers?”  
He blinked silently for a moment, never quite ready for anything that came out of the teacher’s mouth. “Well now, I, ah... I suppose they are mighty practical, all else aside.”  
Muriel received his answer with laughter and another one of the kind smiles she found came so abundantly when visiting Green Gables. “Do you suppose we might get you to wear a skirt one of these days, then?” She asked playfully. “They can be mighty freeing on a breezy summer day!”  
Matthew blushed all the way to his eyebrows. Muriel glanced at Marilla out of the corner of her eye and was relieved to see that tiny half-hidden smile once more.  
“Right... I, ah...” Matthew mumbled before nodding curtly and heading up the stairs without another word. Mind you, he thought to himself by the time he had reached the landing, it had to be said that he didn’t dislike the concept after giving it a bit of thought...   
Laughter bubbled up the stairs behind him, rising from its source in the kitchen.  
“You are funny, you know. I’ve decided,” Marilla said, catching her breath. “You do manage to strike a chord, but you do it with such kindness... I admire that about you,” she admitted. Muriel only winked jokingly over the rim of her teacup. Marilla sighed. “Your house must have been plum full of laughter and jokes during your marriage.”  
Muriel took another contemplative sip of her tea, tilting her head to one side and looking off in remembrance, her eyes seeing far past Green Gables for a moment. Her smile changed, not altogether diminishing but shifting into something cherished—she smiled at a kitchen table and a home that Marilla had never seen and suddenly regretted bringing up.  
“It was,” Muriel replied softly, nodding.  
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” Marilla apologized. “My manners seem to have up and left me.  
“No,” Muriel protested earnestly, “It’s alright. It’s nice to remember. And to share those memories with those I have now,” she added, her eyes brightening. “I think you would’ve liked him, Marilla. Bold, and spirited—but always a perfect gentleman.”  
Marilla considered him for a moment. From the way Muriel spoke of him, she was sure she’d agree—though she also felt that she might like just about anyone the woman spoke of with such fondness. She trusted Muriel.  
“He sounds just like you. A perfect match,” Marilla said.  
Muriel chucked at that, confusing Marilla a bit. Why on earth should that be funny? But then, watching the woman, she understood—Muriel spread her legs to rest an elbow on each knee, looking triumphantly up at Marilla. Just like a man.  
“So you do agree I’m a perfect gentleman? I’ll admit, I had hardly cared about what Mrs. Lynde thought before, but that all falls completely by the wayside knowing you think so highly of me.”  
“I... yes...” Marilla said. She found her words deserting her again, watching Muriel posture so. It was crude and endearing all at the same time. She felt her cheeks go hot, though not with embarrassment. “Of course I do.”   
She should be shocked, should be scandalized by it all—the trousers, the conversation, the queer jokes she kept making. But Marilla Cuthbert, stern and respectable as she prided herself on being, felt none of that. No, in her own kitchen, sat across from this resolute woman, this... kindred spirit... Marilla Cuthbert felt her heart beat at a frantic pace. She felt warm all over. She wondered for a moment if she were falling ill. And throughout this entire puzzling internal process, Muriel held her gaze steady, looking curiously back at her. As if she understood something that Marilla could not.  
“Jonah would’ve liked you,” Muriel said at last, quiet again. Marilla blinked, catching herself out of a daze and steadying herself.  
“He must’ve been a wonderful husband,” she ventured.  
“He was,” Muriel agreed, her eyes shaded with the cast of memory once more. “A husband, an accomplice, a lover.” She smirked. “A best friend. Although I daresay our relationship likely never resembled anything of Mrs. Lynde’s idea of ‘settling down.’ What would be the fun in that?” she asked lightheartedly. “We didn’t settle, we... we lived. As simple as that.”  
The idea could not have been less simple to Marilla. As far as she understood it, she had been “living” at Green Gables her entire life. But never like that, she felt. That one word from Muriel’s mouth said so little and so much at the same time. No, certainly never like that. She had Matthew, and Anne, but... she dismissed the thought before it could fully form. No use dwelling on years wasted when Rachel made such a brutal agenda out of reminding her.   
And there it was again, that insightful gaze whose meaning was lost on Marilla. She shifted in her seat anxiously, nodding politely. Muriel squinted at her for a moment, looking as if she were about to say something, before crossing her arms and leaning forward onto the table.  
“And what about you, Miss Marilla?” She asked, resting her head on one hand. “Have you ever dreamed of settling down and marrying a rich man?” she prodded, in a none too kind imitation of Rachel. Marilla shook her head laughing, standing to clear the table.  
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” she said, turning towards the sink to hide her reddening face, desperate to change the topic. She felt inadequate, somehow.   
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Muriel laughed from the table, “I could hardly resist. But nosy neighbors aside,” she continued, watching Marilla busying herself in the cupboard, “Have you thought about it?”  
There was a change in her tone there, and Marilla stilled. She knew Muriel’s question came from a place of genuine curiosity rather than judgement, but it daunted her nonetheless. Marilla peered into the dim cupboard, eyeing jars and reading labels. She spotted one particular bottle in the back. An idea formed. She toyed with it. Looking over her shoulder at her kindred spirit—she felt such an odd, private thrill at that—she decided.  
“Muriel, I don’t suppose you’ve ever had occasion to try my infamous currant wine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muriel: *does something gay*  
> Marilla: why do I feel like I'm gonna pass out


	3. Chapter 3

This was a warmth that Marilla found decidedly less startling and far more agreeable. The parlor fire roared away, Muriel sat next to her on the sofa, the both of them sipped the dark, sweet wine, and Marilla felt truly at ease. Well, she reminded herself, it was a drunken ease, but in light of the day she decided it was alright to indulge. And indulge they did—the batch had turned out peculiarly strong, and the two drank as if it were water. Muriel had coaxed Marilla into one final glass with a merry declaration that they ought to live a little, that same enlivened inflection from earlier tempting Marilla beyond all resistance. Soon enough, the bottle had emptied and the sun had long since set. Supper could not have been farther from their minds, though their appetites were no doubt thoroughly spoiled. Usually Marilla would be upset with herself for such carelessness, but sitting there flushed and giggly with Muriel so close (equally as flushed and perhaps even more giggly), she found that she didn’t have it in her to wish for anything else. She felt decidedly bubbly... and perhaps that was alright for a change.  
“And that, my friend,” Muriel gestured with the grandiosity deserving of any finale, “is why it is always better to hitchhike with a companion.” She took a small, ridiculous curtsy from her seat, satisfied with the ending of her tale. Marilla, quite enjoying the theatrics of her delivery, awarded a small round of applause. “Speaking of companions...” Muriel continued, repositioning herself to face Marilla directly, “I don’t believe you ever quite answered my question earlier.”  
“Have I ever gone without a corset in public?” Marilla asked dubiously.  
“No, not that!” Muriel said, reaching for Marilla’s hands. Marilla thought in that moment, confused as she was about the query at hand, that she could quite get used to holding those hands. She simply wasn’t used to being touched. That didn’t mean she didn’t crave it, she realized. No friend had ever been so generous with their affection.   
“I meant, have you ever dreamt of being married?” Muriel asked.  
Marilla looked at her doubtfully a moment before resting her head back on the sofa with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. The question didn’t feel nearly as disheartening as before, but she still felt troubled by it on some veiled level.  
“Well... I suppose it was all anybody ever talked about when I was Anne’s age,” she shrugged. “Every girl dreams about marrying when they’re young.”  
Muriel cocked her head at that. “Yes, but was it your dream? Did you ever set your heart on anyone?”  
“Oh, I...” Marilla trailed off, lost in contemplation. It had been so long since she had even considered the subject, and it wasn’t until Muriel had asked her earlier that she even registered the distress it caused her. She suspected Rachel’s unending heckling had something to do with it. Still, Marilla pushed through her own hesitancy and sought out the answer, which came out at last with an unexpected yet resigned ease. “Not as such, no.”  
“Really?” Muriel asked, her clumsy inebriated energy succumbing to riveted interest. Marilla hummed her confirmation, giving a small nod.  
“I liked the idea of it, for sure and certain. A husband, a home—though I’ll confess, I never particularly wanted babies. But... it never seemed like a true possibility for me. I never quite felt the inevitability of it that all the other girls were so certain of, I suppose,” Marilla shrugged. “And then life moved on, and so did I.”  
Silence hung heavy in the air for a moment. Muriel regarded Marilla in the low light of the parlor, noticing all of the dancing shadows cast about the angles of her face by the fire. She took stock of Marilla: hair pinned into her usual neat bun. A few unruly strands dared to rest by her temples, all restraint abandoned a few glasses ago. Clean, practical shirtwaist, buttoned up to her throat. Muriel could see all the places it had been carefully mended by hand—she ran a thumb across the soft skin at the back of Marilla’s hand, still clasped within her own. She noticed Marilla shiver slightly, nearly imperceptible. All the elements of the woman she now knew so well were in their proper place, and yet Muriel now also sensed that their foundation had shifted just so. Or begun to, by degree. She met Marilla’s gaze again, watching those luminous eyes watching her back.  
This time when Marilla felt the sudden intensity of her stare, she didn’t puzzle at its meaning or wonder what Muriel knew that she didn’t. Perhaps emboldened by the wine (or indeed, by some newly discovered and intrinsic force of her own), she didn’t startle or look away. She drank it in.  
Muriel did understand something that Marilla didn’t. Or rather, Muriel thought she understood. She hoped she did. God, she thought as she felt her heart beating in a way it hadn’t in years, she hoped she understood. A glimmer of an idea flared up in her mind that perhaps she could help Marilla understand it, if her intuition held true. But it wouldn’t do to play teacher in this instance, not at all. This was someone’s life—not so cut and dry as an arithmetic lesson. It was something Marilla must arrive at for herself, even if she needed a little push in the right direction.   
And so Muriel pushed.  
“Surely you must’ve had some youthful affair of the heart?” she asked, leaning back next to Marilla.  
“In a fashion,” Marilla said, feeling suddenly isolated by memory. “If you’ll believe it, John Blythe and I courted for a time.”  
“And what happened?”  
“We quarrelled.” Marilla frowned. “And I made a fine mess of it all by being stubborn.” She risked a sideways glance at Muriel and found her still listening intently. Marilla grimaced internally, recalling how it all had happened—she was left with the same strange feeling as she had had when their argument was fresh, of none of it being ‘enough’ somehow. Not even her own anger. Yet halfhearted as the romance had been, he had moved on and she hadn’t. Oh, she thought that she had, in her own way. But that shadow of doubt crept back in, reminding her of her own greying stagnance. “He was quite dear to me,” she continued somberly, “but even before we went our separate ways it only ever felt half-right at best. Though I suppose I just figured then that... I figured that everyone felt that way. About love, I mean.” She patted Muriel’s leg, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes—it betrayed an echo of loss. “And oh how time has unraveled that assumption,” Marilla said with a small laugh that did not achieve much in the way of convincing Muriel she was alright with that.  
“What do you figure now?”  
“About love?” Marilla asked. Muriel nodded yes. “Well,” she said, fixing her eyes on the ceiling once more, “looking back on it a lifetime later, I figure... I loved the idea of marriage more than John himself. I had finally felt so close to...” She shrugged. “Well, to what everyone said love was, what it ought to be. I tried so hard. Following the right instructions, taking the right steps. But then John wanted to leave Avonlea, and it split me. Oh, I remember it so clearly, too—a moment of clarity in the middle of an awful row we were having. I just knew, suddenly. I did not love him enough. Or properly. Or how he wanted me to. Or...” Marilla sighed heavily, shaking her head. “I loved the thought of marriage enough to argue he should stay. But not him. Not enough to go with him. To really be with him,” Marilla sighed. “And certainly not enough to leave my family when they needed me. So I chose Green Gables. Rachel always said the right man would come along eventually, but no other man ever took notice of me. Nor I him. And I had my hands full here. Life kept marching on, so I did my best not to count the years and resigned myself to this,” she said, gesturing at the house around them. “It got easier the sooner I accepted that I would never have a love like that. The kind that mattered.”  
Muriel turned sharply at that, pushing herself up to face Marilla with a look as if her own heart had just been broken. As far as she was concerned, it had—this selfless, truly kind woman she had the privilege to call her friend felt a depth of loneliness that she, too, knew intimately. She had learned to deal with it in her own fashion, but Marilla had accepted it and leaned into it, had allowed others to feed it to a monstrous size. She had never felt truly loved, never been-  
Muriel’s mind whirled with so many things she wanted to say to her, beating up against the blaring awareness that she daren’t overstep in this vulnerable moment and ruin it all.  
“Marilla,” she breathed out softly, brow furrowed with concern, choosing her words carefully. “There are so many different kinds of love. Don’t say that.”  
Marilla sighed, sitting up to rest her hands on her knees. “I can see that there’s some truth to that.” She nodded. “The love that Anne has brought to Green Gables is wholly unlike anything I could have dreamt of for myself. And I’m grateful for that.”  
Muriel shook her head, dismayed.  
“Of course that love matters, Marilla. But that isn’t... that’s not what I meant,” she said. She wanted to reach out once more, comfort her again. But this wasn’t about what she wanted, Muriel reminded herself. Push too hard and one could end up doing more harm than good.  
“What was your meaning then?” Marilla asked quietly. She felt tired. Acknowledging the years meant allowing some of their weight to settle back down on her at last. She wasn’t fond of the feeling.  
“Despite what that freckled child of yours might have you believe,” Muriel spoke softly, “love is vastly more complex than just that of the bosom friend and the romantical, soul encompassing mate. Maybe it takes a lifetime to learn it, but so much exists in between the two. In infinitely different forms. Marriage and babies—most would call that a big, important kind of love. But it is far from the only kind that matters.”  
Marilla mulled it over. She wanted to believe it, wanted to trust Muriel’s sage experience, wanted to hope. And yet hearing the creak and groan of Green Gables settling around them, the thought of all the things Rachel had called her crept back in.   
“Fiddlesticks,” she said, shaking her head.   
Muriel slid closer on the sofa, placing a hand on Marilla’s arm and leaning back next to her.   
“It’s the honest truth, Marilla!” she insisted. Marilla turned to her, doubtful and hopeful in equal measure, seeking out those eyes that she knew could turn her either way. “I cherish all of the medium and small kinds of love I’ve had just as much as the big love I shared with Jonah. They add up, appreciate in value. Make me who I am.”  
Marilla realized suddenly how close they were, feeling that charged pressure of Muriel’s fingertips through the fabric of her sleeve. She was struck by another warm, surprising thought: Muriel was beautiful.  
She silently decided on hope.  
“You make love sound like... trinkets to be collected,” Marilla said at last.  
“And why not?” Muriel offered brightly. “Were my soul a bare mantle I’d certainly see it smartly decorated. They’re medals of care. It’s a precious thing, to entrust another with your heart—and indeed to be trusted in return. It ought to be appreciated as such.”   
“The things you manage to say...” Marilla laughed softly, smiling at her in awe once more. “Things I never would have thought of, but so simple at their core they feel as though they should be quite obvious.”  
“That’s why I’m such a good teacher.” Muriel winked. “Just like time. And experience. And even love.”  
“Love is a teacher?”  
“Each love, no matter the type,” Muriel nodded. “They all teach you different lessons.”  
Marilla had to admit it made a sort of sense. She supposed the same thing could be true of friendships. Being friends with Rachel had taught her how powerful gossiping could make some people feel...   
“What does a small love teach you, then?”  
“Small love teaches...” Muriel started, retreating into memory for a moment, eyes bright. “That love doesn’t have to last forever to be dear.”  
“What in heaven does that mean?” Marilla asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously.  
“Flirtation, Marilla!” She giggled next to her. “Passionate flings that don’t last the summer! But oh, the memory of which can sustain you through the longest winter!”  
“Oh,” Marilla scoffed, playfully swatting Muriel’s arm. “You sound just like Anne, you preposterous woman!  
“I’m preposterous, am I?” Muriel teased, swatting Marilla back and moving closer still.  
“Yes,” Marilla laughed, “unless you tell me more about these ridiculous lessons of love this instant and make some sense out of your fanciful nonsense!”  
Muriel giggled, feeling at last the full effect of her final glass of Marilla’s sweet wine. She leaned her head against the woman’s shoulder, closing the meager distance between them and feeling Marilla sigh at the contact. Marilla’s hand came up, idly smoothing Muriel’s hair. Muriel reached up without thinking, stroking her wrist and stilling her hand there by her cheek. She looked up at Marilla and saw her as she had never seen her before: tender. Unguarded. A thought from before returned with a small pang of grief: Marilla Cuthbert had never known what it felt like to be kissed by a lover. Muriel felt sorry in a way that transcended pity, as if the deficit were her own. She sighed.  
Another gentle push.  
“Medium?” Muriel said softly, reluctantly resuming the lesson.  
“Medium,” Marilla nodded.  
“A medium kind of love can be difficult, even painful—but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Sometimes that means you just have to accept that not everyone wants the same things as you. You might think it’s turning into big love, but they may only be able to manage a small love,” Muriel explained, gazing up at Marilla. “You both get stuck in this painful, stagnant, in between—that’s the medium. So you learn to give what love you can and go your separate ways.”  
Marilla rested her head atop Muriel’s, sad for her at the reminder that such sage experience must come from disappointments as well as success. “Was this before you met Jonah?” she asked.  
“Yes and no. We were all friends, the three of us, in university together. And after it ended—after we went our separate ways—Jonah was kind to me while I picked up the pieces,” Muriel sighed. “Out of that heartbreak grew a wonderfully big love. And I’d do it all again. A hundred times over, were I given the chance.”  
“And what was this heartbreaking fellow’s name?” Marilla asked.  
Muriel’s heart raced, looking up into Marilla’s eyes in silence. Searching. She was sure then, laying against her in the dim, warm room, that she wasn’t mistaken about her. The silence stretched on; they both felt it about to burst. Muriel took a deep breath. One last push.  
“Florence.”  
Marilla blinked, confused. Had she misheard? No, she knew she hadn’t. But she was speechless, in a manner wholly removed from the wine or her own clumsiness with words. Intrigued.  
“A... a woman?”   
Muriel said nothing, only nodding softly with a smile, her eyes never leaving Marilla’s.  
“Oh,” was all Marilla could think to say, distracted by a dawning sense of relief. She didn’t know why she felt it, or what she felt relieved of. But her pulse quickened, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that relief was what it was. Muriel could see it in her eyes: the foundation shifting, bit by bit. “I’ve known plenty of women to have close friends, but I’d never have considered...” Marilla trailed off, bewildered. The shift continued in her thoughts, information piecing together, things falling into place that she hadn’t even realized were out of place. And behind it all, that nagging question: why was she so relieved?  
“It was different. Beyond mere friendship,” Muriel answered simply. “Love.”  
Of course, Marilla had known that there were women out there that desired other women—but it was something she had only ever heard talked about in private, and usually with derision. Certainly, there was never anybody like that in Avonlea before. She had always tried not to think about it. Not out of disgust or fear—that was Rachel’s domain of judgement, always. Marilla had just been focused on doing everything else right, trying to figure out what she was doing wrong, why her love never felt like it was enough. She couldn’t let herself be distracted. Then it would somehow all be her fault.   
She had never thought about what it would feel like to love a woman.   
“How did you know that it was?” Marilla asked. “Love, I mean. How could you tell it was different?”  
The relief had a companion now—loss. Was she sad? Marilla could not understand what was missing. Muriel never faltered.  
“I didn’t really know, right away,” Muriel mused. “I often don’t. But it grows and blossoms, and suddenly this person that was once a stranger just feels like an extension of your own soul. A kindred spirit, unmatched, to a higher degree than you ever thought possible.” She smiled. “That’s how I knew with Jonah, because it felt exactly the same way—though it was slower to grow.”  
A kindred spirit, Marilla thought. Curiosity dawned, leaving the relief and loss to mellow for a moment. Anne was very lucky to find so many kindred spirits wherever she went. She had no doubts about the girl finding her own love off at Queen’s soon enough; Marilla was quite sure she could endear herself to a hornet if she really set her mind to it. She thought of Muriel in much the same way. The woman radiated kindness and light wherever she went, even now in her own parlor. In her arms, Marilla realized suddenly. Somehow she had ended up embracing her, as they rested against each other. Yes, now Marilla could pinpoint the source of the curiosity—why was the feeling of Muriel’s gentle weight against her so pleasant?  
“I remember the moment I did realize, though. The first time,” Muriel explained. “Florence had written a script for her drama course, and enlisted me to play the dashing hero rescuing the damsel for a reading with some of our friends. The day came and I was mortified to stand up there, but I did it anyway.”  
“I’m sure you were perfectly brilliant,” Marilla said, trying to imagine it. Charming as ever, even in her mind.  
“Oh no, I was quite perfectly dreadful. I’ve no knack for recitation. Would you believe that being on a stage is nothing at all like standing in front of a classroom? And I remember feeling utterly strange, wearing trousers for the first time. Imagine!” Muriel laughed, looking up at Marilla again. “But I gave it everything I had, and proudly. Because I realized, somewhere along the way, that I would walk to the ends of the earth if only she asked me to.”  
Muriel sighed, caught up in the memory of youth.  
“She kissed me that night, in my room. It felt... electrifying,” she whispered. She felt on the verge of something, there in Marilla’s arms, not daring to speak too loud for fear of shattering it all. Time had done well to obscure her memory of touch, of being held. She missed many things, but above all it was that—the simplest form of intimacy. Somehow, in the dark with Marilla, it felt like breathing again. She couldn’t even guess at how long she had been holding her breath.  
That one word, electrifying, struck Marilla. That she understood. She understood her heart racing and her whole being singing with what she suddenly recognized as want. But what did she want, what had she been wanting for so long without even knowing? The simple comfort of an embrace? There was no good reason for that innocent desire to have caused her so much pain and doubt. She gazed down at Muriel, taking in all the angles of her face, some part of her hoping to find an answer. She couldn’t read the expression she found there and yet she recognized it all the same. A certain softness. She felt that loss again, searing the edge of her awareness. Something was shifting.  
“Have you never had such warm and tender feelings for anyone, Marilla?”   
A face flashed through Marilla’s mind. A flickering memory of a hand reaching out, holding her cheek.  
“I...” Marilla murmured. She knew that face, remembered that softness.  
“A friend who made you smile truer than anyone? Someone who complemented your own heart in the simplest, most fundamental way?”  
Marilla heard Muriel speaking, but she sounded far away. Something clicked deep inside her, like a key turning in a lock. And through that open door—the heavy air of a summer night, the flush of youth, chestnut hair sprawled softly in the hay. The first light of dawn.  
Loss.  
A single tear rolled down Marilla’s face.  
“Beatrice...” she breathed out.  
And there it was, Muriel thought. Marilla understood. No more pushing necessary. Muriel sat up, wrapping a reassuring arm around Marilla’s shoulders. She trembled.  
“Tell me about her,” Muriel whispered, taking her hand.   
“Beatrice McGrady, she... her family only stayed in Avonlea one season,” Marilla gasped, panicked by the force of her own memories returning all at once. “Her father and all seven of her brothers—they were looking for farm work. I was barely nineteen. We met at a church social, and Rachel couldn’t stand her. Said so many nasty things,” she spat. “But we kept each other company that whole summer. There was a storm on the last evening of the harvest. We got caught up in it walking back from town. Fell asleep in the barnloft together. Nobody ever held me like that.” She smiled tearily. “I don’t know that there was ever anyone that made me laugh as she did. I don’t know how I’d forgotten.”  
Muriel watched her intently, her features shifting from fondness to grief.  
“I woke up not too long after sunrise and she was gone. The whole family. Cleared out in the early hours like they’d never been there. On to look for more work. I had been meaning to tell her how beautiful her hair always looked.” She shuddered. “And then I was... alone. Again. For so long.”  
Another tear began its descent.   
“God in heaven...” Marilla laughed in disbelief, returning to the present. She looked to Muriel. “I think I...” She gasped, covering her mouth, sobbing freely now. “I think I loved her.”  
Muriel pulled her in tighter, resting her head on her shoulder once more. She felt a few tears of her own welling up, and she let them fall with a deep sigh. She wished she could take on Marilla’s grief, feel it so she didn’t have to. Nobody deserved to feel so alone. But she couldn’t, Muriel thought as Marilla leaned into her, crying into her shirt. She needed to feel it to prove to herself that she could, after so many years believing otherwise. All Muriel could do was be there for her, make it easier to bear. Make her see she was not alone. And so she did. She held Marilla in her arms, stroking her back, smoothing her hair.   
Marilla let it all out, the years of confusion and detachment and hopelessness. She let out the tears she hadn’t realized she had been holding in for years, denied for what felt like her whole life. She let out the tears until they ran dry.  
And when she had finished, Muriel was still there. She had never let go. She sighed into Marilla’s hair, breathing in the scent of lavender and woodsmoke.   
“I haven’t thought about Florence in ten years and it never starts to hurt less,” Muriel said, wiping a tear from Marilla’s cheek. “But it makes everyone in my life now all the more dear to me.” Her fingertips lingered on Marilla’s jaw, Marilla looking up at her bleary eyed and breathless. Her heart began racing again—did Muriel mean her? Could she really consider her dear? Marilla wanted to-  
She blinked rapidly, dismissing the thought. That’s not what this was.  
“What happened to her?” Marilla asked, wishing anyway that they could stay like this forever, in each other’s arms.   
“She got married,” Muriel said sadly. “I could never fault her for it; her family had it all arranged long before we ever met. And I would never have expected her to go against custom like that. She wasn’t strong enough—didn’t have the constitution to handle the fallout. She wasn’t as stubborn and preposterous as I. She feared judgement. Above everything.” She sighed, shaking her head. “But she wanted to keep seeing me, in a secretive fashion. And I suppose I simply had more love to give than she could ever fit into her new life. It was painful—seeing her and making love only when her husband was away. But not being with her. It felt like only half a love. I didn’t want to—no, I wouldn’t—live in the shadows of someone else’s marriage. So I ended it.”  
“How do you deal with the pain?” Marilla asked quietly.  
“You can never give in to it, that’s the key.” Muriel nodded. “You have to take the hurt and dare it back into love, or it’ll harden you. It’s terrifying. And difficult. But I took that hurt, and I dared it to love Jonah,” she said, smiling.  
“And after he passed,” asked Marilla, “what then?”  
“I took the hurt and dared it to love my students. It’s not the same, but it’s better than being sad and bitter.” She took a heavy breath. “There are some days where I have to dare it harder than others, and I feel like I’m back at the very start of it. That’s just what happens when you’ve got so much love to give. It doesn’t always know where to go. And when it’s got nowhere to go, it’s... a crushing absence.”  
“How can it be that the old maid is so woefully inexperienced, yet the young woman is the wise widow?” Marilla mused sadly, stroking Muriel’s hair. “It hardly seems fair.”  
“It doesn’t, does it?” Muriel laughed softly. “But I am a teacher. So perhaps it was meant to be that way. At the very least, it means I can share my experiences. Help others understand.”  
Marilla sighed. She did understand, at long last. She hesitated to think what her life would be like without Muriel, without this night. Going on as she had before. It had been all she had ever known, being numb and on the outside of everything. She had spent so long convincing herself she was okay with that, but now—the thought terrified her. Muriel had changed all that. She felt empty now—not in lack anymore, not becau se there was something missing. But lighter. A weight had been released. Open, hopeful.   
Relief returned, and she understood.  
“For so much of my life,” Marilla said, “I thought that I just hadn’t any love to give. I thought I was... broken. Or cursed. That love just did not exist for me. And now...”  
Marilla could not dare herself to speak the thought aloud, but stared into Muriel’s eyes for what felt like the first time again and dared her to understand. Muriel reached up to cup her cheek and Marilla wondered if she could feel how fast her heart was beating. Her fingertips ignited that now familiar warmth in Marilla. Her eyes fluttered shut, leaning into Muriel’s hand, chasing the source of the growing heat.  
“Marilla Cuthbert, you are one of the most loving people I’ve ever had the fortune to know.”  
Marilla’s eyes shot open, her lips parting in a quiet gasp.  
They both stilled, flushed and warm in yet another suspended moment. Marilla saw it all suddenly with crystal clarity—Muriel’s hand on her cheek, the feeling of being held in her arms, the past few hours, days, months. Things had been shifting, all this time, from the moment they had met. The air had changed. It had nothing to do with the wine—and everything to do with the two of them there, in that moment, connected.  
“You must miss them both terribly,” Marilla whispered, inching in just the slightest bit, not quite sure what she was about to do but knowing that she had never wanted anything so much.   
“Not now,” Muriel answered quietly, so close Marilla could feel her breath across her face. “Not when I’m with you.” She ran her thumb slowly across Marilla’s cheek, eyes flicking down to her lips for a second—and then back up to meet her eyes, searching once more. There was no need to push anymore.   
Muriel pulled. Marilla followed.  
When their lips connected, Marilla felt electrified as she never had before in her life. Her hands thoughtlessly rose to Muriel’s waist, finding their place there by feel alone—and feeling so, so right. This was what was missing. Muriel followed in turn, laying her other hand on the side of Marilla’s neck, stroking the sensitive skin and feeling Marilla tremble beneath her. She leaned into Marilla’s lips hungrily, pulling her closer still, the electricity sparking hotly everywhere they touched.   
Yet Marilla needed her even closer, needed them to be as one. She pulled Muriel into her arms with one swift movement, shifting her onto her lap without breaking their kiss. The soft strength of those arms surprised Muriel, and she gasped against Marilla’s lips. Marilla was surprised—no, shocked—by the strength of her own desire, by the things it was finally leading her to do and feel. She hadn’t thought about kissing—let alone being kissed—since she was a young girl, before her life came to claim her. She could never imagine what it felt like and was always worried she wouldn’t know what to do. Had never been fond of the concept in the first place.   
But the second Muriel’s hand touched her cheek, she finally understood what she had missed out on wanting for so many years.   
It felt like breathing.   
Muriel missed this—missed passion, missed feeling wanted, missed wanting in return. And god, did she miss kissing. So much of her daily energy was devoted to acting a certain way—patient teacher, with the answer to everything. Progressive, but not too much. She had to be calm, she had to be likable. She could speak her mind, but not too loudly. It was an exhausting masquerade of artifice.   
As she felt Marilla’s hands press her lower back, her grip shifting downward inch by inch, that all melted away. All she had to be right now was Muriel—no acting, no facade. Just her lips on Marilla’s, smiling into each gasp and groan that they elicited. Letting go. Nothing outside the room mattered anymore.   
They shared a thought in that breathless silence:  
This is living.


	4. Chapter 4

Matthew rose early the next morning. He washed and dressed in the grey light, eyeing the clouds far off on the horizon as he laced up his boots at the edge of his bed. The cows needed feeding and watering. He resolved to start the kettle before heading out—a nice, hot cup of tea would be just the thing to warm his bones after coming back in from the barn.   
He moved through the house with light steps, careful as always in the hall and on the stairs so as not to wake Marilla just yet. He tried to get her to rest more, now that Anne was away so much of the time, and he thought a lie-in at the start of the week would do his sister some good.   
Matthew got the stove going in the kitchen, set the tea, and slathered some plum preserves on a hunk of stale bread. That was all he needed to start his day. He always considered himself a simple man, not one to fuss.   
He shivered a bit, the autumn morning chill chasing away the lingering warmth he had carried from bed. Best stoke the fireplace in the parlor, he thought—he could enjoy his tea in there when he came back. He turned into the parlor but stopped short in the doorway. Of all the things he could’ve expected to be surprised by in his own home, he had to admit this one had never crossed his mind.   
Marilla and Muriel lay asleep on the sofa. Holding each other. His sister held the teacher tightly in her arms, their cheeks pressed peacefully together with the gravity of slumber. Marilla looked younger to him like that, somehow.   
He shrugged. A lie-in was a lie-in, he thought to himself as he unfolded a knitted throw blanket. Even on the sofa and even nestled up against someone like two spoons nested snugly in a drawer. Matthew was grateful, he realized, that Marilla had found such a good friend in Muriel. She had done so much—for both Anne and Marilla. Really the pleasantest sort of person you could have around, he thought—even if she did have a bit of an odd sense of humor. He laid the blanket over the two of them carefully, covering the women without waking them. He started the fire in the hearth silently and did his best not to let the kitchen door creak too much on his way out to the barn.   
Matthew never even thought to question finding them curled up together like that—women’s business, he conceded with a nod.   
He ended up taking his tea back upstairs with him when he returned sometime later. Marilla woke with the squeak of the top step on the landing as he turned down the hall, comfortable yet confused as she registered the roaring fireplace and the throw placed so precisely atop them.   
Them. She registered the woman still encircled in her arms.   
Marilla couldn’t quite remember at what point kissing had turned to dreaming—she feared for a brief moment that she may have dreamt all of it, but no. No. Muriel truly lay there, in her arms still, real as the dawn and breathing as softly. She nuzzled gently into her tousled hair and inhaled—a unique mix of rose and cedar. She felt as if she could cry again, right then and there.   
This was real. What she felt was real, what they had shared the previous night was real. Muriel Stacy had kissed Marilla Cuthbert—and Marilla Cuthbert had very thoroughly kissed her back. And many, many times at that.  
She felt like a completely different woman than she had woken up as the day before. She supposed she really was, in more ways than one. But one way mattered more than any: Muriel, breathing slowly, asleep next to her.   
Marilla knew possibly better than anyone just how completely a life could be changed by just one person. With Anne she thought it was just an odd twist of fate, but this—this felt like proof, somehow. She wasn’t sure what of; perhaps God, of some higher plan for her. Perhaps just sheer dumb luck. But above all, she felt, it was proof of love—proof that she could love, and be loved in return. A lifelong impossibility turned reality overnight, the physical evidence laying before her.   
Marilla thought back to their conversation in the dark the previous night, about the different types of love and the different lessons they could teach. She chuckled, recalling Muriel’s size system—only she and Anne would think to come up with something like that. Her heart ached funnily at that, at the realization that Anne was something they shared between them. It was a good ache, though. Whether she had expected it to end exactly this way or not, she finally understood the inevitability that had always stayed an unanswered question throughout her youth: lover, child, home. Shifting on the sofa to close her eyes again, pressing a soft kiss to Muriel’s warm neck, nothing could have made more sense.   
Small, medium, large. Categories and logic, applied to matters of the heart—as preposterous as the woman that explained them. And yet Muriel had given her a gift: not only had Marilla been entrusted with Muriel’s heart, but she had been reintroduced to her own. She solemnly vowed never to be a stranger to it again.   
She thought of another kind of love, of a kind that filled whatever space it was given (big or small or anywhere in between). Marilla would never admit that she’d spared the theory a moment more thought, but laying there in the slowly brightening room as the sun warmed the earth at last, she thought of the lesson this kind of love must teach: that you are capable of love you never felt possible. That sometimes two people find each other because they simply have so much love to give, and a lifetime’s worth to accept.  
Now she was preposterous, she thought as she smiled to herself. Maybe that was what love was—preposterous and wonderful. The rising sun struck the prism of the wine bottle on the table and cast a dazzling display around the room. She thought of each glass, of the bubbly laughter that had so quickly emptied each one. It was as if they had been celebrating something, without even knowing what. Now she knew what. She felt a sort of preposterous, private toast was in order.  
To living, she thought. Marilla held Muriel close and went back to sleep, as simple as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muriel is the little spoon and you will not change my mind :)  
> Thank you for sticking with it this far, I always feel a little iffy my first time writing for a fandom and the wonderful comments have been so so helpful. And thank you to everyone in The Gays of Avonlea groupchat! Here's to creating more and more fics for this lovely pairing!  
> If anyone was holding out for smut—that'll be in the follow up fic that I'm outlining as we speak ;)


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